


Lay Me Down

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Bad Parenting, Coming of Age, Death, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hunting Community, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kind of Suicidal Ideation, No one dies but Dean thinks about death, Rites of Passage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One rite of passage across three generations:  Dean, Mary, and Emma dig their first graves</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> John Winchester is NOT a good parent in this fic.

Dean Winchester digs his first grave at thirteen. 

He’s tall enough at thirteen, his dad decides. He can get himself back out once he gets to the bottom. It might take some scrabbling, but he can do it, should damn well be able to do it. 

Dean stands as tall as he can under his father’s appraising eyes. He tries to keep that height, the squareness in his shoulders and straightness in his spine when John leads him out into the night. Dean glances back at Sam, sitting on the motel bed worried for Dean and mad at being left behind. Dean gives him a thumbs up and a smile before dad shuts the door.

They don’t go to a graveyard. Instead they go to a field. With the engine cut and the music off, it’s just Dean and his dad sitting in silence in an empty clearing off of some backroad in Virginia. 

“C’mon,” Dad says, and Dean follows him, trying not to fidget. 

Dad wordlessly grabs a bag from the trunk and leads the way across the mist filled clearing. Dean tucks his hands into his pockets, picks at a stray thread coming loose at the seam. 

They stop at the edge of a copse of trees and Dad turns to face him, dark and serious. He explains the depth, the width, and the height of the hole. How far down Dean needs to go, how to use the shovel to measure. Dean already knows this stuff. He’s good with numbers, good with space; his teachers tell him so, give him problems that are for high-schoolers to keep him from goofing off when he finishes the ones that are standard for his grade. 

Dad passes him the shovel; Dean takes it. The wood of the handle is cold and worn smooth in his hands. 

“I’ll be back by morning,” Dad says. 

The “you’d better be done by then” is unspoken but implied. 

Dean stands as tall as he can; he puffs up his chest, lifts his chin, “Yes, sir.”

Dad turns and walks away, leaving Dean alone in the dark. 

He takes a breath and pushes the shovel into the earth.

*

Six inches:  
Dean tries to think about what this means: he’ll be able to go on hunts soon. He’ll be able to help his dad. Hunt the bad guys. Save people. Maybe he’s not Batman yet, but Robin at least. He smiles to himself as he tosses dirt to the side. 

One foot:  
But who will stay with Sammy while Dean is out with Dad? Will he be okay by himself? He’s only nine. He could burn the motel room down making dinner…What if he needs help with his homework? What if something happens to him while Dean is gone? What if he loses Sammy while he’s off with Dad? His sweat turns cold and clammy on the nape of his neck…What would he do? He can’t lose his brother. 

Two feet:  
His palms blister. The skin rubs painfully against the shovel. It’s not that bad until he stops for a minute to catch his breath, and then it hurts like a bitch. So he doesn’t stop. He keeps going even when his neck knots and his chest aches and his arms get tired. He wonders if they can get food after this, stop at a diner on the way home for something good and filling. The Spaghetti-Os he ate for dinner feel like a million years ago. His back hurts. When he pauses to wipe sweat from his brow, his palms burn like they’re on fire. He hisses through his teeth when the cool spring air touches the exposed nerves and he redoubles his grip. 

Three feet:  
The only funeral Dean has been to is his mother’s. There wasn’t a body left after the fire. There was nothing but charred bones lost in debris, but they had a funeral anyway. The casket was white. He remembers that. He remembers not understanding, not being able to believe that his mom was inside of it. His mom who laughed and sang and smiled. His mom who read him stories and hugged him tight. He couldn’t imagine her in a box. Couldn’t imagine her in the ground. Couldn’t understand. It was a cold day, a gray one. Snowflakes fell fat and wet against the shiny coffin lid, onto the turned up earth. Dean stood next to his father while they lowered his mother into the earth. Dad didn’t look like Dad anymore; he looked scary and dark. He didn’t tuck Dean into bed, didn’t smile; didn’t hug or sing. He stared straight ahead as they put Mom in the ground, didn’t make a sound. Sammy cried in his father’s arms, and Dean tried his hardest not to. He had to be a big boy like his mom would have wanted; Dad said so. Dean didn’t cry. He didn’t open his mouth, didn’t say a word…he wouldn’t for a long time after. 

Four feet:  
Dean is hungry. His stomach alternates between growling and cramping. He’s tired. His arms feel like lead weights. It’s cold out here and damp. He feels exposed, alone in a ditch, vulnerable to anything. He’s tuned in to the slightest noise. Everything hurts. His back and his arms and his hands. His toes and fingertips are chilled, but his t-shirt is soaked with sweat and his palms burn now whether he stops or not. He bites his lip until it bleeds, tries to hum to himself to take his mind off it. He solves math problems in his head. Goes though times tables, the periodic table, recites pi as far as he can. Dean goes through all the herbs he knows and what they’re for, he mentally cleans and reloads every type of gun they have in the trunk of the Impala, which weapon to kill which creature. 

Five feet:  
He wonders what it would be like to be digging towards a body. Someone who had died, someone whose spirit had stuck around, turned violent. He thinks about the bones and the skin, imagines a mummy. He imagines opening his mother’s coffin, pristine and white, and inside her body, burned and blistered. He imagines her screaming, like she does in his nightmares sometimes. He wonders how many graves he’ll dig in his life. He wonders how many people he’ll bury. 

Six feet:  
He imagines coffins, filled with the dead: Sammy, Dad, Bobby, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Billy from Math Class, Ms. Parker who teaches English. He imagines people dead all different ways: shot and stabbed and burned, tore up by a ghoul or a ghost or a werewolf. This could be a grave for anybody. He looks up. The sky is turning gray; it’s almost morning. He wipes sweat out of his eyes. This isn’t anybody’s grave; it’s his. He dug it himself. Dean lies down, stares up at the sky. Hunters don’t get buried; they get burned. Like mom, charred until there’s nothing left to bring back. Nothing left to take. He imagines the smell of his mom burning on the ceiling, the white of her coffin and the snow, he looks up at the stars. He closes his eyes. 

*  
Dad comes to get him just before dawn. Dean hears the rumble of the Impala’s engine and scrambles to his feet. He must’ve fallen asleep. He throws the shovel up to the ground and clambers out after it. His arms are shaky, but he manages. 

Dad looks Dean over and then measures the grave; he uses the shovel, he smells like whiskey. 

He looks at Dean from the other side of the grave, and, for a moment, Dean feels his throat go tight, feels a shiver of fear run down his spine, but then his father walks over to him, lays a heavy hand on the back of Dean’s neck.

“Good job.”

Dean lets go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. They leave the grave open, Dean’s grave, waiting to be filled. Dean glances back at his once, a twist in his gut as they walk to the Impala. 

*

Dad stops at a twenty-four hour diner on the way back to the motel. Dean shovels food into his mouth, hampered only by his raw palms, which make it difficult to hold the silverware: sausage and hash browns and eggs, pancakes loaded down with butter and syrup. He probably looks like a wreck, famished as he is, covered in dirt and smelling like sweat, but a charming smile can go a long way, Dean’s learned, and he’s sure to shoot one at their waitress every chance he gets. Dad doesn’t say much, doesn’t eat much, he just drinks his coffee, and watches Dean, who tries not to wince too much as cuts his food. They bring pancakes home for Sammy, who devours them with gusto, clearly relieved that Dean and Dad are home. He’s got a curious face on, clearly bursting with questions, but Dean doesn’t feel much like talking.

He takes a shower. The hot water feels like heaven on his back, all the sore muscles releasing under the pressure, but it’s all he can do not to cry when the sharp drops hit his palms. It’s almost impossible to lather up with soap. He does the best he can to wash off the top layer of grime, dry off, and get dressed without screaming. He stumbles out of the bathroom and into bed, cradling his palms protectively. 

He can’t hold a pen in class the next day. He tries to play it off, but the teachers notice. They send him to the nurse, who makes a big deal about “debriding” his palms, which is a fancy way of saying that she’s ripping apart the skin worse than it already was to get the dirt out. She is more than freaked out. Dean is biting a hole in his lip to keep from crying and the nurse calls the principle who makes a big deal about calling his “parents.” Sam gets called down to the office, too, when it’s clear no set of “parents” is coming to get either of them. Dean is having a hard time focusing, his palms burn like a mother fucker, but Sammy looks worried. Dean feels woozy, lightheaded, like he’s getting sick, but he’s clear headed enough to know that if social services shows up, they’re in for a shit ton of trouble. He throws a Hail Mary Pass, gives the principal Bobby’s phone number. 

Things get a little hazy after that; all he knows is that Dad is pissed when he shows up a few hours later. He bitches at the principal and the nurse and Ms. Parker, who teaches English. He growls at everyone before grabbing Dean by the shoulder and pulling him to his feet. Sammy tries to stabilize Dean’s stumble by taking his hand, but Dean shouts out and curses cause it hurts so bad. Dean lays in the back and doesn’t even complain that he hurts, that he’s not riding shotgun, that he’s never gonna get Trig problems from Mr. Gregson, or find out how Romeo and Juliet ends, or say by to Billy Peterson. Sammy says something to Dad, and Dad barks something back. The road bumps and jostles him. It hurts. Dean tries to curl in on himself and groans. 

A few hours later, Dean’s on Pastor Jim’s couch, but he’s not sure how he got there. Sammy’s got a hand on Dean’s ankle and a nose buried in a book. Dean can hear Dad and Pastor Jim arguing in hushed tones; can hear Dad yelling at Uncle Bobby over the phone. Dad either steals some antibiotics or Pastor Jim puts a donation to good use, because Dean’s being forced to swallow down pills. Once they kick in, he realizes that some pain killers were mixed in there. A lady with dark eyes shows up, her face is hazy, but she speak to him in a kind voice while she pokes and prods at his palms until Dean passes out because it hurts so bad. 

The next time he wakes up, really wakes up, his head is less fuzzy, but he feels like he got hit by a semi. Pastor Jim and Sammy bring him food and water, tell him he’s been mostly unconscious for three days. A splinter got lodged under his skin, the bacteria gave him a nasty infection. He’s still shaking it off, will be for the next few days at least. The kind-eyed lady had been a doctor, someone in Pastor Jim’s flock. She’d fished out the debris and cleaned him up—did a lot of tutting, said the infection could have been prevented if the sores were cleaned properly, which, Sammy tells him, is what Uncle Bobby and Dad were fighting about. Dad is gone, got wind of a hunt yesterday, left for Kentucky, left Sam and Dean in Pastor Jim’s custody. Dean blinks at all the information, looks down at his hands, all bandaged up in gauze. Sammy watches him with wide eyes, so Dean musters a smile for him, and Pastor Jim rests a hand on Dean’s forehead almost in blessing. They go to make some food and Dean closes his eyes. He thinks about lying in that grave, the one he dug for himself, staring up at the stars. Wonders if his mom ever gets lonely in hers. Wonders if he would in his.

*  
Six years later, Sam digs his first grave. He’s a strapping fifteen; tall and gangly and angry at the world in a way that Dean can’t remember ever quite being. By this time Dean’s been on hunts, he’s looked evil in the eye. He’s been thrown around and knocked over and had bones broken; he’s salted and burned the corpses of the dead. But Dean remembers the first time he dug a grave, the one where nothing waited for him at the bottom, but his own damn reprieve. He remembers it when his palms ache as the weather turns cold. He remembers the way he stood tall under his father’s eyes; he remembers the fever after, the nightmares and the pain and his first go with morphine. So when dad leads Sam out, Dean tucks a pair of hand guards into his pockets, one’s he’s made himself, and he wishes him well. 

He sits, he waits, and he wonders what Sam will find when he reaches the bottom.


	2. Mary

Mary Campbell digs her first grave at sixteen. 

Some girls have sweet-sixteen parties with pink taffeta and slow dances. Mary Campbell gets, per request, tickets to see the Rolling Stones in concert. Mom takes her and two of her friends and they spend the whole way back screaming song lyrics with the wind whipping their hair into a frenzy. She’s hoarse and smiling for days. 

The grave digging thing doesn’t happen on her birthday, but she knows as she blows out her candles that it’s coming. She’s of age now. This is a rite of passage, one she’s looked forward to for a long, long time. As a small child, she would listen to her dad tell her stories about Samuel Colt, the monsters that go bump in the night, and the brave hunters that destroy them; little Mary, with wide, rapt eyes and her arms around her teddy bear, couldn’t wait until it was her turn. She would be the hunter to find the Colt and kill the all demons. One day, her dad would say with a smile and a kiss as he tucked her in. 

There are three rites of passage for a born hunter: first grave, first kill, first exorcism. They’re supposed to be completed in that order, but Mary has always been a bit precocious. She exorcised her first demon when she was eleven: a classmate at a birthday party had doubled over hissing when she sampled the holy water spiked fruit punch. Reciting the exorcism had been easy. Her parents sung her exorcisms as lullabies. She knew most of them by heart before she could properly talk. The bigger challenge had been luring the thing wearing Sally-Jo Johnson into the pantry, and taking care of the real Sally-Jo Johnson when the thing was gone. 

Mary made her first kill a year later: she was taken by surprise walking home on Halloween. A fake vampire had turned out to be a real one, and decided the youngest Campbell would make a nice addition to his nest. Mary came out of the encounter covered in more than fake blood. At least the holiday had made it easier to hide the severed head and carnage in plain sight. 

A born hunter is supposed to dig their first grave in their late teens. It’s kind of a big deal, a lifetime of learning, leading up to the moment where they prove that they’re old enough, strong enough, to apply their knowledge in the field. When a hunter climbs out of their first grave, they leave the child in them behind, they bury it, and move forward as an adult. When a hunter climbs out of their first grave, and moves on to their first kill, they’re supposed to be ready, excited. Mary remembers the wide eyed girl she used to be and wonders if she’d be more excited about this if she hadn’t gotten blood on her hands, hadn’t looked evil in the eye, first. 

Dad is certainly excited for her. Proud: he’s said as much more than once. His little girl is all grown up. Mary rolls her eyes and smiles. Mom is more reserved. She never hesitates to tell Mary how proud she is of her, and Mary never doubts her mother’s love, but Deanna knows that Mary has mixed feelings about hunting. Mary has told her as much on more than once occasion.

Honestly, she’s told both of her parents that she isn’t sure that she wants to make a life out of slaying vamps and werewolves, always looking over her shoulder, always on edge. She wants a normal life, a quiet one. Dad says she’ll think differently when she’s older, says that it’s just hormones and teenage nonsense, reminds her that “Campbells have been killing monsters for over three hundred years. We were some of the first hunters on these shores. Hell, one of your ancestors worked the first case down at Roanoke.” Mary rolls her eyes and bites her tongue. It’s easier to talk to mom; easier to unload her fears and doubts while they’re sparring in the attic or curled up after homework listening to the Beatles album they both adore. Mom invites confidences in a way that Dad does not. 

*

Your first grave is never a real grave. That is, it’s not a used grave. Your first grave is one you dig by yourself and for yourself: a moment of reflection about the fragility of life, the grave you’ll never get because hunters are salted and burned. You go into the grave a newbie, a child, green as the grass you’re uprooting, when you crawl back out, you’re grown, seasoned, ready. There’s a ritual to it; a resonance. Mary’s family has been doing this for generations, it’s a connection, a legacy that chafes at her the older she gets, but it pulls at her tonight. 

Mary and her mother stand in the backyard at twilight. Mom will supervise this; she’s supervised much of Mary’s physical skills: knife fighting, sparring, how to take down people and things bigger and stronger than she is. Mom taught Mary the cross bow, the rifle, the slingshot, the handgun. Dad likes the lore better—Mom fondly, dryly says it’s because he loves the sound of his own voice—but Mary thinks it’s because her dad never wanted to raise a hand to his daughter, even to train her. 

They have a large yard, wards laid into the foundations and the perimeters, their nearest neighbor is at a safe distance. They have a flourishing garden that dad maintains, growing the herbs they need for rituals alongside some fruits and vegetables. It’s near there that Mary will dig her grave—waste not want not, the earth that Mary turns up tonight, might as well be put to good use for planting. 

She breathes deep as the sun sets, fills her lungs with fresh air, listens to the cicadas. Her mom smiles at her. She lights candles around the chalk outline of the grave. Mary digs her shovel into the earth. 

The shovel doesn’t hurt her hands as much as she thought it would. The callouses she’s earned from years of weapons’ training rasp against the wooden handle. Still, she’s sweating, has to tie her hair back to keep it from sticking to her forehead. The first foot she digs in silence, lost in her own thoughts as the sky darkens and the smell of freshly turned soil permeates the air. She wonders if this is what she wants: a life of digging up graves, burning corpses to put the dead to rest. She wonders what it must be like to be a ghost. Are they scared? Are they lonely? Does it hurt when their bodies burn? Can they feel it? What must it be like to die twice? 

She thinks about the case she worked with Dad last month. She had mostly observed, talked to the other young people to gain information. Mary was good at ingratiating herself. She made friends easily, could charm with a smile and the tilt of her head. The case was a haunting. Once they had all the information, Dad and Uncle Eric had gone to salt and burn the corpse without her. 

Dad had ruffled her hair, “No use getting soot on you before its time.” Uncle Eric had laughed, but Mary wondered how much scrubbing it would take to get rid of the smell of charred flesh, to get the grave dirt out from beneath her nails. She wondered if someone could ever clean that off. She didn’t think they could. 

“I dug my first at fourteen,” Mom says, passing Mary a glass of water, which she accepts gratefully.

“My father was drafted, my brothers too, my timeline got moved up,” mom smiles slightly in the dark, a faraway look on her face; Mary knows that her Uncle Jimmy never came back from the Pacific, and her Aunt Laura lost a hand to a ghoul in Minnesota in the winter of ’42, she was only fifteen. Too many hunters got sent to fight the human monsters in Germany, too few were left to fight the evil that lurked in the dark at home. 

Mary passes back the empty glass and picks up her shovel again.

“I dug my first grave the day I turned fourteen in the back garden, and was digging one in a cemetery a week later.”

Mary’s hands shake, she pauses to readjust her grip, wipe the sweat from her brow. She can feel the dirt she leaves behind..

“My hands didn’t have a chance to heal; they were sore for weeks. I didn’t throw up, but I wanted to, when we opened the casket. The smell…” Mom pauses and frowns, “it was hard to shake, and all I could think about were my father and brothers, that if I didn’t move quick enough or think quick enough it would be them lying down there and more besides.”

The grave comes up to Mary’s knees. It feels so much deeper, it might as well be quicksand. 

“It’s often a thankless task, what we do. You protect people from things they don’t even know to be afraid of. You watch people, good people, die, and sometimes you’re lucky enough to save a few. And you have to hope to god that’s enough. You come of a long, long line of hunters, Mary…It’s a proud legacy, and it’s a hard one.”

Mary looks up, meets her mother’s stare.

“If you want to walk away from the life, I will help you, I will do whatever I can,” her mom’s mouth twists, “Including talking to your bonehead of a father,” Mary snorts, “but, Mary, just because you leave the life, doesn’t mean the life leaves you. I want you to be ready for whatever comes at you. Including having to take care of a ghost in that future house of yours, all right?”

Mary smiles, warmth behind her sternum, “All right.”

Deanna grins back, “Good, now get back to work, we don’t want to be out here all night.”

The for the next two hours Deanna is Mary’s sounding board. She is the practice audience for Mary’s debate club speech, she avidly listens to Mary rattle off the Shakespeare monologue she was meant to memorize for English class, and she quizzes Mary on the periodic table of elements for her Chemistry test. Dad comes out at one point to bring another glass of water for Mary and a cup of tea for Deanna and to appraise the progress of the grave. Hands on his hips he leans forward and back, teetering on the edge of the hole. 

“It’s coming along,” he purses his lips, “much better than those mud pies you used to do out here.”

Deanna swats him and Mary rolls her eyes, but dad laughs before heading back inside. 

Mom has a funny, secretive smile on her face as she watches Dad walk back to the house, and Mary turns wistful, planting her shovel back into the earth. She wonders if she’ll ever look at someone the way her mother looks at her father. The boys at school are fine, she supposes. Good enough to look at, some of them, but silly and childish. 

Jean (her cousin on her father’s side) is three years older than Mary. She thinks that Mary hasn’t found a boy because “how can you be with someone who isn’t in the life? How can you take someone seriously if they don’t know what’s out there? Those boys are boys. They don’t know a damn thing. They’ll never be men.” 

Mary thinks that Jean is crazy. How can she be with someone who is in the life? Who only wants to talk about rugaroos and silver blade quality and the right moonlight for a proper protection sigil? How can she be with someone knowing that their life together will be an endless string of fear and blood? But when she goes to the movies with Jack Henson, Mary is too busy scanning the exits to enjoy holding his hand, and when she kisses Jake Tafford in the front seat of his pickup truck, she’s more worried about possession that STDs. Maybe Jean has a point…her parents love each other. It’s clear to anyone with eyes. They love each other and they love her. They have a house and a life. They’re as safe as a family can get, and yet…Mary is in her backyard digging a grave. Her mother is flipping a knife between the fingers of one hand while she sips tea with the other. Her father has spent the better part of the week reading up on human sacrifices for a hunt he’s working and just appraised this grave like it’s something he should be proud of, not a disturbing reminder of the horror waiting at every turn. Mary frowns, she digs the shovel in hard enough that it sends a jolt up her arms. This isn’t the life she wants for herself, for her kids one day. She never wants her child to dig their own grave. She never wants her kid to shed a drop of blood or face a demon or—

“You okay, honey?”

Mary shakes her head and pastes on a smile, “Just tired is all.”

Deanna searches her face, and nods knowingly. She starts to sing. Mary catches the tune and joins along. They sing every Beatles song they know. Mary regales her mother with some Stones and Deanna sings back some Elvis. By the time, Mary reaches the bottom of her grave her voice is scratchy and her hands are sore and her pants are covered in dirt, but she’s smiling. Deanna smiles down at her. 

“Well done, Mary,” she beams, something like tears in her eyes. She bats them away, “I’ll give you a minute.”

Mary nods. She touches the wall of earth with her finger tips. It’s damp, solid. Little rocks are embedded in places, tiny rootlets poke out, they tickle her palm. She can hear more than see insects crawling about, dislodged, probably annoyed. For a place of death, it’s certainly full of life. Mary sits down on the damp earth, she lays back, stares up at the sky. It’s a clear night, inky black with a speckling of stars. She identifies one constellation, then another, then another. She grins. 

Hunters don’t get graves. Even if she leaves the life, even if she gets away, she wants to be salted and burned, just like all those three hundred and more years of ancestors. She lays her hands on the earth at her sides, looks down at her feet and above her head then back to the sky: this is the only grave she’s going to have. It’s hers. Here lies Mary Campbell. Today she dies as a child and is born an adult. She thinks that most people would be afraid to lie in their own graves, she knows that most of the kids a school, boys and girls, would be terrified. Mary was raised a hunter, raised with hunters, raised knowing what you should be afraid of—there are worse things than death, she’s seen them. No. This isn’t scary. It’s—peaceful. Her muscles are sore and tired, her breath is slowing back to normal, there’s a chill in the air but it feels good on her over heated skin. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathes in deep, when she breathes out, she opens her eyes, gets to her feet and climbs up out of her grave. 

She’s an adult now, a woman grown. A hunter if she wants to be, or not, if she doesn’t, but she gets to choose. She gets to choose. Mom wraps Mary in her arms the second she’s up out of the grave, Mary buries her muddy, sweaty face in the crook of her mother’s shoulder and inhales in the scent of apples and silver polish. 

“I’m proud of you,” Mom whispers, and Mary hugs her tighter. When they get back to the house, Dad pulls her in for a hug that’s tight enough her ribs creak in protest. 

They stand in a circle, her parents almost teary eyed, and Mary oddly warm somewhere between embarrassed and happy; it’s a little like how she imagined it would be when she was a child, though for different reasons.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up, while I take care of that crater out back?” Dad says, squeezing her shoulder. Mary smiles and shuffles to the stairs. She looks back to see her father pulling her mother into his arms; mom smiling with her head beneath his chin, dad mumbling with a choked voice. Mary smiles, averts her eyes, grips the banister, and continues upstairs. 

The shower feels heavenly. Mary scrubs the dirt off. Washes her hair, once, twice, three times before she’s convinced that she’s removed all the debris. She’s not squeamish by any means (how could she be, raised as she was?), but it feels important, washing away the dirt of her first grave. Something about fresh starts. She stands beneath the spray until she runs out of hot water, until her tired muscles have been thoroughly pummeled. She dries off, pulls her hair back, and puts on the most comfortable flannel pajamas she owns. She’s tempted to flop face first into bed, but the smell of cinnamon drifts up from up the kitchen and Mary follows the heady aroma. 

Her mom is sitting at the table with two cups of cocoa and a homemade apple pie, wafting steam.

Mom smiles, a spark of mischief in her eyes, “Figured you might’ve worked up an appetite.”

Mary laughs, “I’ll say,” she plants a kiss on her mom’s cheek, “You’re the best.”

“Hush,” Deanna cuts them each a slice and then pulls a tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer.

It’s warm and cozy and Mary feels oddly content. Dad comes in after a bit, smiling. Mom tells him to wash his hands and dad makes a show of rolling his eyes, but there’s a slice of pie waiting for him when he’s finished. They stay up at the table through second and third helpings, talking about how well Mary did, about her parents’ first graves, and anecdotes about their siblings’ first graves and hunts. They laugh and joke until the birds begin chirping and light peeks through the window curtains and Mary can’t stop yawing. Her parents help herd her up to bed, and Mary wants to tell them to stop, wasn’t the whole point of this that she’s grown now? but her dad helps her take off her slippers and her mom pulls the covers up to her chin, and both of them kiss her forehead and tell her they love her before they leave, holding hands and shutting the door behind them.

Mary drifts as the birds chirp beyond the window pane and the light of dawn chases away the monsters that hide in the night. She remembers how peaceful it was to lie on the cool earth, but she thinks, turning over and burrowing into her warm blankets, this is much, much better.


	3. Emma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is canon divergent from the hiatus before season 8. There is a brief mention of suicide but in a Winchester, "I would die before I let you die" kind of way.

The first time Emma Winchester digs a grave, she’s…well, it’s complicated. She lived three days on earth before she got sent to Purgatory. She spent an indeterminably hellish amount of time that felt a lot like forever in that grey, fetid, warzone before Dean, Benny, and Cas found her and she hitched a ride out. She’s been back on earth for about six months. She figures, all things considered, she’s probably like six months old earth time, but she’s fully grown by Amazon standards, and looks like a typical seventeen-year-old girl to anyone who doesn’t know any better. Joke’s on them, she guesses. 

Actually, scratch that: this whole fucking thing is a joke. Her life is goddamn joke. But this? This fucking excursion is just insulting. 

She’s riding shotgun in the Impala and her fucking father is actually driving the speed limit for once. She narrows her eyes at him.

“I’m doing this under duress,” she says.

Dean swallows, doesn’t take his eyes off the road. Oh, he’ll spend the whole fucking drive gazing longingly at Castiel from the driver’s seat; he’ll put all their lives at risk to make eye contact with Sam while they cruise down the interstate talking about nothing; but Emma can’t be spared a first glance, let alone a second. She has to count to ten in Enochian to keep her eyes from turning gold.

“I know, Emma,” he replies and adjusts his hands on the wheel.

“I’m here because Cas insisted,” she continues, firmly, sharply.

Dean clears his throat, readjusts his seat, “I know that.”

Emma glares, then turns to look out of her own window, the town speeding past in a blur of brown and grey, “Good.”

*

This entire excursion is pointless. It’s beyond pointless. They all know that she is more than capable of digging a six-foot-deep hole in the ground. Hell, she’s probably more capable than Dean or Sam or any number of hunters. Harmonia bestowed many blessing upon her daughters, even the half human, uninitiated ones, that have been resurrected. Hell, maybe to them most of all. Emma didn’t kill her father and she has no plans to do so, but she’s killed more creatures and men than any of her sisters ever have, in Purgatory or outside of it. She’s proven the strength of her blood, the strength of her spirit. That Dean, of all people, wants her to take this test is demeaning. It is beneath her, it’s even beneath him, and she does not hold him to very high standards. 

When he proposed that she dig a grave, she thought that they had had someone that they needed to bury. That, at least, would make sense. When he explained, flustered and fumbling, that it was not for anyone or anything to be buried in, but simply for her to prove that she could, she had blinked in astonishment and then laughed in his face. 

Dean has seen her kill. He’s seen her fight. Hell, she’s saved his life using her superhuman strength and “bonus features,” as he sometimes calls them, more than once. Dean tested her martial skills when they came back to earth. He reviewed her skills with guns in particular, never having seen her use them. She passed with flying colors. She can best Dean with knives, swords, and bows. She can hold her own in a knife fight or sparring session with Castiel. She prefers not to be left alone with Sam for any length of time, but in one particularly memorable (and cathartic) training session she laid him flat in less than two minutes. Digging a grave when there’s not a body to bury or a corpse to burn seems like a waste of time and energy.

When she had explained as much to Dean (after she had stopped laughing and realized he was actually serious), he told her that it was “just important, okay?” and wandered off before they could discuss it further. 

Emma watched him retreat and fought down the swirling confusion that roiled in her gut whenever Dean walked away from her. She didn’t understand what he wanted from her, but then, she supposed he didn’t understand at all what she wanted from him. Sometimes Emma doesn’t either.

She did what she always does when she is unsure (particularly about anything Dean related): she went to Castiel. Castiel always listens to her; he loves her, and Emma, who has never really known the love of a parent or even a friend, feels like she glows when she’s with him, feels warm and safe. She trusts him. They understand each other: they’re both strangers to this thing called humanity, to this place called earth. They’re both human, but not quite. They’re both inextricably tied to the Winchesters: Emma by blood, Castiel through love and shed blood. Castiel was the first to look upon Emma with kindness, with compassion. Emma was perhaps the first to accept Castiel completely as he was. Castiel is her family, as far as Emma is concerned. She would kill for him and die for him, but she’s happier to live with him. 

When she found him in the library, shortly after her talk with Dean, he sensed something was wrong and beckoned her to sit next to him. He watched her with wide, blue eyes, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Emma’s heart rate, which she hadn’t realized was spiked, began to slow at the contact.

He listened attentively while she spoke, nodding and frowning in concentration. 

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, fiddling with her fingers, “he seemed disappointed. It doesn’t make sense to dig a grave if there’s nothing to bury.”

Castiel sighed, “I think it is, perhaps, more that Dean wants to reassure himself of your capabilities.”

Emma frowned at him, “I think that he’s more than aware of my capabilities. I beheaded a vampire last week. He watched me do it.”

Castiel tilted his head, “But he’s never seen you do this. I’ve read that it is common for human parents to seek irrational confirmation of their children’s capabilities in order to reassure themselves of their safety in a volatile and uncontrollable world.”

Emma’s mouth twitched at the corners, “Have you been reading more parenting blogs?”

Castiel inclined his head and squeezed her shoulder, “Of course. I am endeavoring to be a good parent. It seemed best to consult people who have more experience in the matter.”

Emma shook her head with a smile, “You’re doing okay.”

Castiel smiled back, “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment while the smile gradually fell from Emma’s face, “You don’t think—” she cleared her throat, which had suddenly become painfully tight, “—you don’t think that he wants me to dig a grave so that he can bury me?”

“No,” Cas said firmly, “even if that were his intention, I would never, let that happen. I would lay waste to civilizations before I let anything happen to you, but I don’t think I would be wrong to say that Dean would likely slaughter an entire city before he allowed anything to happen to you either.”

Emma shook her head, eyes burning, throat tight.

“Emma,” Castiel continued, pulling her to his chest and wrapping his arms around her, “this is not about hurting you. This is about making sure that you are safe, that, if you find yourself in a situation without us, you have the necessary skills and confidence to enact a plan to protect yourself and others.

“I would never encourage you to participate in any activity that could lead you to harm.”

Emma wiped her eyes and sniffed, feeling absurdly childish, “Not even a vampire hunt?”

Castiel planted a kiss on top of her head, “That, we both know, is less dangerous for you than an outing to a shopping mall.”

Emma chuckled wetly against his chest. In Purgatory, Castiel had smelled of blood, rain, and mud at the edge of the river. On earth, he smelled of coffee, old paper, and the strange rainy, metallic scent of his angel blade. She breathed it in, feeling comforted.

“Dean is trying to assure himself of your capabilities so that he can be less worried about your survival,” she could almost hear Castiel rolling his eyes, almost, “I’ll remind him, as he has done for me, that nothing will really assuage his concerns for your well-being.”

“So I should spend a few hours doing pointless manual labor to make Dean feel better about the fact that he didn’t get to raise me?”

“Loosely, yes.”

Emma carefully unwound her claws from where she had instinctively wound them into Castiel’s sweater. She hoped she hadn’t done too much damage.

“It won’t cause you any undue harm, and it might in some way help you to come to a better understanding of one another.”

Emma sighed. She wasn’t sure that anything could do that. 

“I’ll consider it.”

Castiel placed another gentle kiss on top of her head, “That is all I ask.”

*

After a half hour of driving, Dean pulls off into a clearing. She’s not sure why they had to drive this far at all: the land behind the Bunker was certainly large enough for this. 

It’s a dreary day. March is a cold and gloomy month, Emma is learning; this is, after all, her first one. 

She climbs out of the car. It’s rained recently. The land is damp; the bark of the surrounding trees gleams a dark brown. That coupled with the grey sky and matted yellow grass reminds her almost painfully of Purgatory. She takes deep lungfuls of air to remind herself she’s on earth. It doesn’t smell of rot here, doesn’t smell of rancid meat, dried blood, and death. All she scents is the rain and the earth, the metal and gasoline smell of the Impala, the gun smoke and leather that clings to Dean alongside his aftershave. 

He pulls a shovel out of the trunk while Emma waits. 

He jerks his head to the right, “You ready?”

She shrugs, digs her hands into her pockets, picks at a stray thread in one, presses her thumb against a throwing star she keeps in the other; it draws blood, but her skin knits together almost instantly and the copper smell grounds her for a moment, familiar. She follows behind her father as he leads her to a spot almost equidistant between the Impala and the nearby copse of trees. 

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, hesitant. Emma can smell a faint hint of sweat and fear in the air between them. 

“So, uh,” Dean begins. Emma only barely refrains from rolling her eyes.

She extends her hand for the shovel, “Let’s get this over with.”

“You know what to do?” Dean asks and flushes when Emma cocks an eyebrow at him.

“It’s not that complicated.”

“Right,” Dean agrees, his face falls, and Emma feels almost badly for him, almost, “So, uh, I’ll just stay and, ah, watch.”

“As you like,” Emma shrugs. 

She pushes the shovel into the earth. 

*

It’s easier than she expected. Monotonous, boring, but easy. She’s absurdly grateful that Dean didn’t suggest doing this a month ago. She may have Amazonian strength, but she can’t imagine that digging though frozen earth would have been easy or enjoyable, even for her.

Dean fiddles with his phone, turns on some music while she works. He can’t seem to abide the silence. He paces at the edge of the grave, and Emma does her best to ignore him. This isn’t a complex task. It’s simple, mindless labor. It would be physically challenging, but she isn’t bound by the limitations of human strength. As it is, she’s thankful that the rain made the earth more pliable beneath her shovel. 

She wants to point out that it’s silly for him to watch, that it’s pointless for him to stay, but she’s half afraid that if he drives away, he won’t come back for her. She has a cell phone, she could call Cas to come get her, could dial Jody or Benny or Garth. She could even, if she were truly hard pressed, call Sam. But she doesn’t want to be in that position. Doesn’t want to encourage Dean to leave her here alone. Doesn’t want another parent to abandon her. 

She half curses herself for thinking that. She tries so hard not to think about that. Not to remember her mother’s face when she gave her over to the Matriarch, not to remember Dean’s face after she’d been shot, his face after he’d opened the door for the first time and seen her, after he realized who she was when he found her in Purgatory. She tries not to think of those things ever, tries to tuck them deep inside, in a box that she doesn’t open. It’s apparently not locked as tightly as she thought, or hoped, it was. Her grave is only a foot deep.

Her grave. Her—

She pauses. The grave she stands in, is appropriately long and appropriately wide, a perfect rectangle, but it’s only half way up her shins, if that. 

“Emma,” Dean starts from the side; he stopped pacing a second after she stopped shoveling, “You okay?”

Emma feels cold suddenly. There’s a momentary pressure around her eyes and she knows they aren’t a human color anymore. She tries to breathe them back to a softer shade, to a color, a brightness that won’t encourage her father to end her life again. She silently counts to ten in three languages, recites two exorcisms, goes through the Enochian prayer for peace. Her eyes remain gold, the skin around them scarlet. Her heart beats loud. She can’t stop it.

“Was it even this deep?” she says, quietly.

Dean frowns, she can hear it in his voice, “What?”

She doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the fear in his eyes when he looks at his monster child, but she does anyway. She stares at him with golden eyes, lined in crimson, fangs in her mouth. 

“My grave,” she spits, and Dean stumbles back a step, “when you buried me the first time, did you even bother digging a grave this deep?” 

She gestures to the one she stands in; so shallow that a light drizzle would uncover its contents, an easy feast for scavengers, less cover for a body than a threadbare blanket. 

Her eyes burn, she thinks she might throw up, “Did you even bother?”

“Emma,” Dean looks stricken, as though she slapped him, “I—”

Emma snorts, shakes her head. She purses her lips and wipes at her eyes before offering him a savage, broken smile. She feels a single tear fall down her cheek, but she’s too proud to wipe it away.

“Right,” she says, nodding, “Right, of course not.”

“Emma,” he tries, voice cracking.

“Just leave it,” she picks up her shovel, gets back to work. 

She digs into the earth viciously, vigorously. She knew that no one had mourned her death. Not her mother, whose loyalty was to the clan; not her father, who had watched her die; not her uncle, who had killed her; not her sisters, who understood their duty to the goddess. When she woke in Purgatory, she knew that no one was looking for her, that no one would come for her, that no tears would be shed for her. She knew that. She was sentenced to an eternity alone and forgotten. No memory of warmth to comfort her in hell.

When she saw Dean there, in that place, when he finally realized who she was, beneath the blood and grime, recognized her, she knew that he had forgotten her completely until that moment. Understood that she meant nothing to him. Her life meant nothing, her death meant nothing. It was Cas’ compassion and Benny’s kindness that made Dean help her out of that place; she knew that. He kept her now out of guilt. Guilt and a desire to appease Castiel. That was it. That was all it would ever be. She knew that. She had always known that. So why then, was she crying?

Fuck.

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“Don’t,” Emma snaps, voice cracked.

“Emma,” Dean entreats, “I didn’t know what to do.”

Emma snorts, “So you let Sam kill me and left my body to the dogs and the highway runoff. What else were you supposed to do with an abomination like me? It’s fine. I get it.”

“It’s not fine,” Dean growls, low and rough, fiercely enough that Emma stops growling and looks up at him, “It wasn’t fine. It was fucked up. I fucked up.”

Emma blinks at him. Dean’s brows are pulled together, his eyes are over bright, and his mouth is a thin, taut line. She’s worried for a moment that he’s feverish before she realizes that he’s crying. The bottom drops out of her stomach.

“I fucked up. I shouldn’t have let you die, and when you did, I should have given you a hunter’s funeral. You’re my kid. You deserved that at least. You didn’t deserve any of what you got, Emma. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Emma works her mouth, but no sound comes out. There’s a ringing in her ears. 

Dean walks to the edge of the grave and he steps down into it. He hesitates, unsure, fearful; she knows that look, it’s the one that she has when she reaches out to him, afraid that he’ll shrug her off, pull away. It’s identical. For the first time, Emma realizes she has her father’s mouth, his eyes. Dean lays a hand on her arm; she doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t make it better, but I’m trying. I’m gonna keep trying.” 

She searches his face. She knows her eyes are still glowing, still gold and crimson; her fangs are descended and her claws are out. Dean doesn’t look away, he meets her gaze, he searches her face. He looks helpless, lost, and so, so sad. 

“I—” she tries, “I don’t—I don’t know how to—” tears spill over, and she’s in Dean’s arms before she knows what’s happening, taking dragging breaths, clutching his jacket for dear life, while he rubs circles on her back and mutters nonsense to her. 

“Shhhh,” he says, “let it out. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

*

When they pull apart, they both have to wipe at their faces, ridding themselves of snot and tears as best they can manage with their sleeves. Dean cups the back of her head in his hand. Emma stiffens for a moment, fight or flight at having a hand so close to her neck, so close to a vulnerable part of her, but Dean let’s go almost as soon as he takes hold. It was a gesture of affection, Emma realizes, a gesture of trust. She’s seen him do it with Sam. 

Dean goes back to the car to get them water, and Emma goes back to digging, trying to understand what just transpired. 

When Dean comes back, Emma sips her water slowly, watching him. He seems uncomfortable, but also lighter somehow. She’s not sure what to make of it. 

“Why did you want me to do this?” she asks when the grave is almost three feet deep.

Dean shrugs, “It’s kind of a tradition. Hunters,” he explains, “you have to dig a grave before you can do a salt and burn in the field. It’s like the ghostbuster bat mitzvah.” 

Emma narrows her eyes, and Dean chuckles.

“What?”

Dean grins, “You look like Cas when you do that.”

Emma smiles and shrugs; she takes that as a compliment.

“So you did this when you were my age?” she asks.

“Nah, I was younger,” he frowns, “older. Fuck that’s confusing.”

Emma arches an eyebrow, “You’re telling me.” 

“I was thirteen.”

Emma frowns, “That seems young.” 

Granted she never had a childhood by anyone’s standards, and perhaps she tends to jealously romanticize normal childhood because of that, but still, thirteen seems young to dig a grave. 

So Dean tells her: about being left alone in the dark to dig a grave, about his father giving him a shovel and instructions and then driving away. 

By the time he finishes, her grave is four feet deep. She frowns. Dean told the story matter-of-factly, but it didn’t sit well with her. Emma feels a prickling in her shoulders, a discomfort, a strange protectiveness. It’s difficult to imagine Dean as a child sometimes, at others, it’s far too easy. 

“You must have been frightened.”

“I was scared shitless.”

Dean’s tone is jovial, but Emma is not amused. She is angry, angry for the little boy Dean had been.

“He shouldn’t have left you alone,” she says firmly after a moment of silence, “Your father; he should have stayed with you.” 

“Emma,” Dean says, “why do you think I’m here?”

*

“Cas says you’re doing this because you want to reassure yourself of my capabilities.”

“Of course he does.”

“Cas says you’re trying to assuage your parental fears.”

“Has he been reading the parenting blogs again?”

“I think he’s started contributing to them.”

“Of course he has.”

“He said your fears will never be assuaged.”

“Course they won’t. You fucking died on my watch when you were three days old, you’ve spent your whole damn life in a hell dimension; you’re a Winchester so there’s basically a damn target on your back. Course I’m not gonna have my fears assuaged.”

“But you’re trying anyway.”

“I’m trying to do whatever the fuck I can to make sure you’re safe.”

*

The grave is five feet deep. 

“I’ve dug a grave before, you know”

Dean who has been dangling his feet over the edge of the grave stills and fixes his gaze on her. Emma doesn’t look at him.

“When I was in Purgatory, the second person I killed—the first I, well, I acted on instinct, it had a lot of teeth, so I slashed its throat with a rock and I ran, but the second…we fought, she wasn’t bigger than me, didn’t look older but she probably was…”

Dean hasn’t so much as twitched, Emma keeps digging. She holds the shovel tightly to hide her trembling hands.

“I killed her. I ripped her throat out with my teeth. I watched her bleed out. She seemed so tiny once she stopped bleeding. She was all alone. I had her blood all over my face and in my mouth, but I couldn’t…it seemed wrong to leave her out in the open. I’d been there for a few days at least, I’d seen what happened to bodies, souls, after they were killed.

“So I dug her a grave with a flat rock and my hands, and I laid her there.”

“Emma,” Dean starts.

Emma shrugs, “They probably got her anyway, but I tried. I didn’t want her to be alone. Even though I’d killed her.”

She looks at Dean and he looks back. For a moment, they understand each other. 

*

The grave is six feet deep. It’s taller than she is. It’s damp and pungent. It’s quiet. Emma doesn’t linger in it any longer than is necessary. She thinks perhaps she’s supposed to, that that’s part of the tradition. It would make sense, to reflect upon mortality at this stage in one’s hunting career. Emma’s died once already, and, like Dean said, she’s a Winchester, she’s basically got a target on her back already. She’s got a second chance at life, and she has no interest in spending any more of it than is strictly necessary in her own grave. Dean offers her his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her up. 

*

They dust themselves off and climb into the Impala. Dean drives them to a diner off the interstate. They both order double cheeseburgers and extra fries. The waitress smiles indulgently at them when she takes their order. Dean winks at Emma and she shakes her head at him.

She’s ravenously hungry and her food is gone in record time, even for her. They order desert: apple pie for each of them, a la mode, with hot chocolate. She lingers over that; it’s delicious and worth lingering. 

It’s oddly comfortable between them. Warm even. Emma allows herself to look at Dean, really look at him; not as a threat or a monster or a stranger, but a person, her sire. She observes the way his hands move and the way his eyes crinkle and the sound of his laugh. For the first time, she sees herself in him, or sees him in herself. It’s strange, but she thinks she likes it. 

“I told Cas that I was afraid you wanted me to dig a grave, so that you could bury me in it,” she blurts out when they’ve almost finished their pie.

Dean pauses, sets down his fork, leans back, “I know…he, ah, told me.”

Emma nods. She’s not surprised. Castiel tells Dean what he thinks is necessary. Emma trusts his judgment.

“One: that’s really fucked up, even for us,” he starts, “and by us, I mean me, Cas, and Sam. Your family? We’re some fucked up people, Emma.”

“My godfather is a vampire,” she reminds him, “my godmother is a sheriff who’s killed zombies. I’m not human. My mother gave me to a cult, and Sam has told me some things about your lives. I’m aware.”

“Right, well, ah,” Dean continues, “Second, and most important, Emma, you gotta know that I would never,” he leans forward, reaches for her hand on the table and holds it, squeezes; his hands are large, calloused, they’re the same shape as hers. They have the same fingers, “never do anything to hurt you. Never. I’ve fucked up before, but Emma, but you gotta believe me I would kill myself before I hurt you. You understand?”

Emma considers Dean’s hand on hers, the earnest expression on his face, she thinks about every moment of interaction they’ve ever had, she thinks of Cas asking her to try.

“I’m starting to.”

Dean smiles so brightly that for a moment, it’s as if the sun’s come out. 

*

When they get home, Sam and Cas are in the War Room. Sam smiles at her, contrite as always, but Emma gives him a wave. Cas stands, strides over to her, and hugs her tightly. He whispers to her in Enochian. I’m proud of you, little one. Emma ducks her head and smiles.

She showers and changes into pajamas, fuzzy Wonder Woman one’s that Dean picked out for her. She likes the idea of being a superhero. Likes that Dean is starting to think of her that way. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, and finds her family in the living area. While she was showering, Sam picked up some pizzas, and Cas brought in pillows and blankets, making the couch extra comfortable and inviting. Dean, also freshly showered and in his sweats, sets up the laptop to play Star Wars. Emma folds herself between Dean and Cas on the couch. Sam takes the arm chair.

While the movie gets going, Sam asks about her grave, and shares the story of his. Cas shares a story of watching Dean dig himself out of his grave (“Thanks for that, Cas, really”) and then talks about the history of graves as a historical socio-cultural and religious practice. Dean tries to draw their attention back to the film even as Sam and Cas really get going. Emma smiles to herself. Cas has his arm wrapped around her shoulders; Dean after making sure it’s okay, lays his arm over Cas’ so that his arm is behind Emma and his fingers trail against Cas’ neck. Between them, Emma feels warmer and safer than she has in either of her lives. 

She thinks of her grave, rites of passage, initiations. She thinks maybe she laid something to rest today. She thinks, as she snuggles closer between her parents, that maybe she gets to have a fresh start.

**Author's Note:**

> Mary and Emma to follow.


End file.
